Slipstream
by pyrrhy
Summary: NWN2: Mask of the Betrayer official campaign drabble. Implied Gann/male OC.


**Slipstream**

Neverwinter Nights 2: Mask of the Betrayer official campaign drabble, roughly chronological. Spawned in part from my terror of the Spirit Meter that the expansion implemented. Implied Gannayev/main character.

Disclaimer: NWN2: MotB is Atari's. Not mine.

* * *

He weakens every day, coughing up blood when he thinks we are not paying attention. There is an air of febrile restlessness to him, a desperation that lurks beneath his smiles. He wakes up looking wan and goes to sleep worse. He is trying to control the hunger, but it is taking him over.

Normally I wouldn't be concerned—why am I being drawn in? I am a bystander; I watch, bestow pithy comments and I move on. The fates of men and gods are none of my business. I am here because things have gotten interesting, and for interest's sake only. This begs the question, however, of what it is, exactly, that has captured my attention.

Things take a bad turn this night. He alternatively huddles beneath his blankets and cries out in his sleep. The lively bard of the quick tongue has vanished from the face of this tired stranger with the hungry eyes. I caught him watching us tonight, the bear in particular. I wonder if he knows what he is doing. The rest of the party is restless. I've caught him looking at me as well, though I flatter myself if the question in his feverish gaze extends beyond my ability to traffic in spirits.

* * *

_Comfort extended to another—not to sate the hunger, but to at least forget it for a while. _

* * *

He gave in today and consumed a spirit—an angry one, a lost one. The celestial rebuked him for his weakness, and he had no reply for her, only looked away. I, though—I wanted to snap a retort at her for her self-righteousness. He was weakening, dying. It was only a lost spirit. I wonder who I was trying to convince.

* * *

We were approached by the young one—lithe enough, fair enough. I contributed with my usual comments, though my heart did not feel in it. She did not even blush. Something strange going on. He's riding the edge of hunger again. There is a tight look in his eyes. He acquiesced to her plans, though something feels off. The bear god can sense it too, although the celestial, with her personal hunger for revolution, appears to agree with the decision. They are a formidable pair, going off and speaking to the barbarians. I had opted to stay behind, with the excuse that someone had to guard the camp. The bear would not follow, either.

* * *

It is betrayal after all. He blundered into it, in his desperation, his hunger. What will happen when he dies? We know by now that he may be the best candidate to try and master the thing inside him—or perhaps he is merely a vehicle, and the eater is a parasite within him. The double cross had taken us by surprise; even I, who had been wary, was almost overwhelmed. I finished them off—but barely. I healed him first, on the pretext that the soul eater would be a dangerous thing to set loose. The dead gods only know why I hadn't used my spell on the celestial instead, so she could awaken in her saviour's arms. He is angry at the betrayal, at the monumental mistake he has made. Guilt gnaws at him, and just as badly at the celestial. We have misjudged, and bestowed judgment too hastily. But with time at a premium—what else might we have done? We follow the witch-girl into the forest.

* * *

He fought like a devil, a tight, fixed grin twisting his mouth. At one point, he shouted out—it's the trees! They were acting as a nexus from which the elementals were appearing. We could barely catch up with him as he ran from tree to tree, guided by a sight only he could see. But eventually the waves slowed down, then stopped.

* * *

It was only a temporary measure, after all. His condition continues to deteriorate. At the Woodman, he seemed to achieve, briefly, a measure of insight and peace. Perhaps the ancient sentient's nobility communicated something to his assimar nature and soothed his soul. And to think I was privately worried—no, terrified, given what I had gleaned from this one's dreams—by the thought of past spirit eaters who had attempted to assimilate an entity as large and ancient as the Woodman into their beings. He seemed rejuvenated after that. I wonder how long it will last.

* * *

That night, he came to me, after everyone else was asleep. He had a lot on his mind, I could tell. He thanked me. He didn't say what for.

I suppose there was no need for clarification.


End file.
